Foreplay
by Michelle
Summary: She was in the middle of interrogating him when she noticed the look. He grinned at her (not really a grin, but as good as the real thing - a light dancing through his eyes and the barest hint of a twitch on the left side of his mouth), so she hit him again. Harder, this time, for good measure.


_A fill for the kink bingo prompt "smacking/slapping". __**Warning**__ for (consensual) face slapping. _

_I haven't written much in this vein before; I'm still rather new to this sort of writing, believe it or not. I would love to hear whether or not you think I was successful!_

_Two stories from me in one day, if you can believe it! It's mostly because I'm trying to actually make bingo over on lj, and with this fic, I have actually been successful! Hooray! _

_Love, as always, to all the people who've been reading, reviewing, favoriting, and just generally being awesome! Love you guys! _

_Special thanks to those of you who pointed out I'd mis-uploaded!_

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She was in the middle of interrogating him when she noticed _the look_.

He grinned at her (not really a grin, but as good as the real thing - a light dancing through his eyes and the barest hint of a twitch on the left side of his mouth), so she hit him again. Harder, this time, for good measure.

He spat blood on the floor, but she hadn't managed to knock the glint out of him.

The mark (the real one, the other guy in the room, the one that thought she was interrogating Clint) was too busy talking loudly on his phone in badly accented Swedish to notice that when she leaned over Clint, tugged his hair back and hissed in his face that she was also pressing a knife into his hands.

She turned back and waited while the mark poured out his remaining secrets to the person on the other end of the line. The man had a touch of something unidentifiable in his voice, maybe Finnish or Norwegian, but she didn't really care. Either way, the idiot really must have thought she didn't know Swedish. Or that Clint didn't either, for that matter.

The not-a-Swede ended his conversation with a clumsy string of curses, shoving his phone back into his jacket. When he looked up, his annoyance gave way to fear. She felt a knife at her throat then, Clint's arm tight around her shoulders.

Show time.

They only went through the motions of being on opposite sides long enough to unsettle the mark (and keep him from drawing his weapon), but then he was crumpled on the floor, a sobbing mess with a healthy fear of red headed Russians firmly instilled in his psyche, and none of that mattered.

She phoned Coulson while Clint hog tied SHIELD's latest acquisition.

"Evac?" he asked, moving to stand close to her, invading her space. He reached out a finger to her face, wiped a speck of blood from her cheek. "You okay?"

She didn't have an answer, at least, not a good one, but the air between them started to thicken and her blood buzzed. As it always was with him, her arousal came on too quickly, too strongly, and if she wasn't careful, she'd let him fuck her against a shipping crate, half-conscious thug and imminent evac be damned. They don't like to draw things out, don't like to tease; once they start something, they like to finish it.

It wasn't the right time for any of that, so she shoved her reaction aside and took a step backward. "Chopper's inbound," she said. "ETA in ten."

Clint nodded, message received, and he fished around in his pocket, coming up with a half-crumpled pack of cigarettes. Her hand shot out and she stopped him with a slight shake of her head and a significant look. She hated the way the cigarettes covered up his taste, didn't want any of that between them later.

Clearly on the same wavelength, he said, "Yes, ma'am." He grinned and saluted at her, then turned on his heel to wait for their ride over by their friend with the bad accent.

The helicopter arrived as scheduled, and then they were all carted off to the co-opted buildings they were occupying on the regional military base.

When they stepped onto the tarmac, Coulson had taken one look at them before ordering them to "get cleaned up and report at 0700." She knew they both looked worse for wear, but their wounds were superficial. Still, she was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

They headed back toward the barracks, but Clint didn't bother to take the turn down toward his bunk in the men's corridor because no one was around to see and who were they really fooling anyway? She could feel the tension growing between them, felt the itch of desire creeping all over her body, and she needed to be alone with him _now_. Clint strode purposely in front of her, and he already had his quiver off by the time he was keying in the access code to her quarters.

There was no question about whether they should clean up when he led the way into the darkened room. He had barely shut the door and dropped his gear to the floor when he was on her, pressing her against the wall and attacking her with his lips and teeth. If she'd ever been so acutely turned on, she wasn't aware of it, couldn't remember that time in the sea of hormones and Clint that was assaulting her senses.

"Fuck," she hissed. He'd worked his way down her neck, nipping at the hollow of her throat and sucking the skin between his teeth, even as he used a free hand to drag the zipper on her uniform down to her waist.

"Patience," he admonished, slipping his hand inside her uniform, but she wasn't in the mood for that and judging from the bulge pressing low against her belly, neither was he.

She liked the darkness, the way it exaggerated the sensation of his body against hers, but she needed to see him, needed to look at him while she took him. She hit the light switch and pushed him away from her, all the way back until his calves hit the edge of the bed. Both hands on his waist, she pushed again, and then he was sitting eye level with her chest and the glint was back.

She moved closer, stepping into the space between his legs and threading the fingers of one hand through his hair. She tugged, but the resultant hiss was not one of pain.

"Tasha," he breathed, and she used her grip to pull his head back until he was looking up at her. He closed his eyes and swallowed, the bob of his Adam's apple exacerbated by the angle.

"How do you want to play this?" she asked in a low voice. She knew the answer already, knew it since she saw the first flush of his arousal back at the warehouse, but he wasn't a mark, wasn't someone she messed around with, and so she needed to hear it.

He opened his eyes to meet hers and said, "I want you to hit me again."

She didn't know what it was – maybe the needy timbre of his voice or the heat in his gaze, but there was something heady twisting thickly in her stomach and she couldn't wait to reduce him to a quivering mass of flesh beneath her.

It wasn't a nice sentiment, but then, they were not particularly nice people. They were, however, blunt and honest with each other, and she thought that was better. Deriving pleasure (real pleasure, the kind that made your brain stop hurting) from sex was something both of them had struggled with for a long time, and she counted herself lucky she'd found somebody like him to help her figure out what made her tick. The least she could do was return the favor.

She grabbed his jaw in one hand, twisted his face side to side, inspecting him for any sore spots before she laid a finger on him. It was one thing to hit a mark and break his jaw; she wasn't willing to risk that with Clint.

Finding nothing that concerned her, she tapped him lightly a few times, warmed his skin up, got him used to the feel of her hand connecting with his flesh before she really let loose.

The grunt he let out when she did nearly broke her, stung her, even though she knew he liked it, even though he'd asked her for it.

But then his eyes fluttered shut and his breathing came in shallow pants as he let the euphoria wash over him with a strange half-smile on his face, and she supposed she rather felt the same way because she couldn't breathe, couldn't quite catch enough air in her lungs.

"Again?" he asked at last, blinking away the tears that had welled up in his eyes, and it was a damn good thing she knew what she was doing because an amateur would have inflicted some real damage. Even as it stood, Clint was going to be sore for a while.

Her fingers still stinging from her last strike, she cuffed him across the face, a glancing blow with the flat of her palm that had the fire blazing up in the black depths of his eyes, and she needed to see him, all of him, right then.

"Strip."

"Yes, ma'am," he said again, but this time the gravel in his voice held a promise that he was going to make good on in short order. She tingled with anticipation, and it was too bad she wasn't going to do it again, not tonight, because she'd really like to smack that cocky grin right off his face. Damn the man for knowing her so well anyway.

He stripped efficiently, didn't make a show of it, but then, he never did. It wasn't a game, never a game nor was it a battle between them, but constant give and take, catch and release, cooperation and reciprocity.

He was bare in moments, and she drank in the sight of him, raking her eyes over all her favorite spots, all the places she'd licked and sucked and bitten, all the scars and memories of their lives standing out in relief across his skin.

"C'mere," she said, and she grabbed his hand and pulled him against her, kissed the breath out of him. She pulled back, feeling as red faced as he looked. "I want to watch you come."

"How?" he asked, and her heart contracted at his easy acquiescence.

She motioned toward the bed. "There," she pointed, and he didn't even hesitate, just laid down on his back and got to work, running his hand along the rigid length of his shaft, his eyes hungrily seeking her across the room.

She tracked the erratic motions of his eyes, knew what he wanted her to do without having to ask, and though there was a part of her that struggled against giving in, she found herself peeling off her leather suit anyway, undoing the zipper and the buckles and leaving the entirety of the mass on the ground at her feet.

He focused on her, pumping his cock faster and more firmly as she lost more clothing, but when he started to tense, his eyes found hers, and in a strained voice, he pleaded, "Please touch me."

Her feet moved of their own volition, led her to his side, and she sat down close to him.

"Like this?" she asked, tracing her fingernails along the hollow of his throat and his chest. "Or this?" she added, plucking at his nipples and watching his pupils dilate further.

"Fuck, Tash," he moaned, his face contorted. "Please . . ."

She meant to delay, she really did, but something about the sight of him aroused and at her mercy got to her, so she just went for it. Pulling his hands away from his cock, she planted them firmly at his sides, noting with pleasure that he went without complaint, despite how clearly close to the edge he was.

"Don't move," she ordered. Gently, so very lightly that she barely grazed his skin, she caressed his inner thighs, watching as his dick twitched at her ministrations.

She slapped him sharply on the thigh, enjoying the crack of flesh on flesh that echoed through the air. "I told you not to move," she said, but her voice was strained, her own arousal barely in check, and she knew he could hear it in her voice.

She grabbed hold of him firmly then, encircling him with both hands and watching with glee as his own hands fisted in the sheets. She pumped him, once, then again, and she felt him clench, felt him strain to keep himself in check, but it was an uphill battle, one that he lost when she leaned down over him to lap at his nipples.

He fell apart in one glorious moment, erupting in thick spurts all over her hands and his belly, moaning her name with his back arched and hands twisted in the sheets. She had never seen anything more perfect, more desirable, and she wanted to crawl inside of his skin and stay there.

She didn't want to think about the implications of that, though, so she threw herself onto him, straddled his leg and pressed herself down on his thigh, rubbing against him and staring at his chest, his arms, his throat. He blinked slowly at her, smiled at her when he realized what she was doing, and then pressed his leg more firmly against her center as she rocked.

"That's right, baby," he said encouragingly, curling one arm low around her back and sitting up. "Just like that."

He leaned in and took the peak of one breast into his mouth, used his free hand to worry the other, and goddamn it, he was _good_ at that.

Only a few years ago, before she defected, before _him_, she wouldn't have believed a moment like this was possible, that she could slip so easily between roles, that she could have a relationship with someone, or that she would even want to. But here she was anyway, and well, maybe it wasn't so bad to let someone fuck her rather than the other way around.

He chose that moment to clamp down on her nipple, and it took her an embarrassingly long moment to recognize the ragged sound of pleasure as one that had escaped her own throat. But that didn't matter because he continued to suckle at her, continued to nip and hold her snug against him, continued to make her forget everything that didn't involve his mouth, his hands, his body against hers.

Without warning, he moved her off him, turned her body around and clutched her to him, her back against his chest. She foggily bemoaned the loss of pressure between her legs, but then his mouth found her neck and his fingers pushed up inside of her and she forgot all about why she was upset in the first place.

"My turn," he whispered into her ear as he pumped his hand into her, pressing the heel of his palm against her clit, and she felt herself coiling, desperate for the inevitable drop over the cliff.

He did not disappoint.

He increased his pressure, the rhythm of his stroke, and when the hand that held her upright snaked upward to grip at her breast, she was there, felt her toes curl and her brain melt. His was breath hot on her neck, his tongue and teeth damp on her earlobe, and then he murmured, "Come for me, baby," and it was all over.

She wasn't sure what happened after that; she must have blacked out a little because the next thing she knew she was curled up with Clint underneath a sheet while he played idly with her hair.

"Hey," he said when she opened her eyes.

"Hey."

"You tired?"

She considered it for a moment, then said, "Not especially." She turned onto her side to look at him better, reached out a hand to touch his cheek, and stroked the stubble there. "You need to shave."

He grinned at her in that annoyingly sexy way of his. "You like it."

She shrugged. "It's okay."

He rolled his eyes, knowing it was a lie as well as she did, but he let her have it anyway. He was good like that.

"We should probably get cleaned up," he said, then moved to get up.

She reached out and caught his hand before he could leave the narrow confines of the bed.

"Do you think . . ." she started, but broke off.

He settled back in beside her. "Think what, Tash?"

She bit her lip. "Can we just stay here for a while? I'd like to be . . ." she searched for the right word, didn't want to over-think the implications of what she'd almost said, what "normal" meant to a couple of people like them.

But Clint knew what she meant anyway.

"Yeah, okay," he said.

He pulled the sheet back up over them, cradled her against his side. He rubbed lazy circles across her back, and before she knew it, she started to doze off.

They'd sort everything out in the morning, together.


End file.
